


The Surprise Visit

by thirstyhoeathoedotcom



Category: Actor RPF, Reservoir Dogs (1992), Tim Roth - Fandom
Genre: Crack, I'm so sorry, Other, Tumblr, i had to do this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-04
Updated: 2015-02-04
Packaged: 2018-03-10 12:48:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3290888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thirstyhoeathoedotcom/pseuds/thirstyhoeathoedotcom





	The Surprise Visit

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Tumblr user ennio-morricone](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Tumblr+user+ennio-morricone).



“Bailey…Bailey!”

Your eyes pop open and your whole body gives a great tremor like someone just dumped a glass of ice water on you. Someone was whispering your name in the dark. You could feel the ghost of a rough upper lip lingering on your earlobe. There was a faint perfume smell in the air—not too overwhelming but definitely noticeable. Possibly the quantity that one would find on a perfume sample stick at a department store. Someone was in your room. They got past security at the front desk, picked your lock, pulled themselves up on the frame of your loft bed, and whispered in your ear.

“What the fuck…” you mutter to yourself. You turn to the oak nightstand on your left and squint your eyes to check the time. You expect to see the bright orange lettering of your digital alarm clock blink 2:00, maybe 3:00 A.M. Instead, you’re confronted by two huge green eyes capped off by equally massive eyelids. You’re too shocked to scream. It feels like you’ve swallowed your tongue and your body has strapped itself to the blue vinyl dormitory mattress.

Why the fuck is Tim Roth in your room?

Before you have the chance to vocalize your horror, Tim puts his right index finger to your lips to silence you.

“All right, sweetie? Betcha weren’t expecting me, eh? Especially not at this hour.” Tim pulls a pack of Benson & Hedges out of his fanny pack and lights a match. He brings the lighted tip to his cigarette and gives a few puffs.

“You can’t smoke in here,” you choke out. Your words have a hard time coordinating with your tongue. The shock hasn’t left your body yet and your vocal skills seem to be the most affected. You take a long, deep breath, trying not to inhale any cigarette smoke. You blink a few times to clear the fog of slumber that you had been comfortably cloaked in not five minutes ago. There was just enough moonlight coming in through the window to distinguish Tim from the rest of the stuff in your room. His short stature is exaggerated by the thick wool coat that seems to swallow him up whole. His fanny pack is strapped on over the black coat and he’s wearing burgundy Doc Martens. What a tragic ensemble. I guess money really can’t buy taste.

“Hang on,” you think to yourself. “This is not a good moment to play fashion police. I need to figure out why this frog-looking motherfucker is in my bedroom.”

“Um…excuse me? Mr. Roth? You’re gonna need to explain yourself real fast. My R.A. is right across the hall and—“

“Don’t bother, love. I’ve given your R.A. a signed copy of the Reservoir Dogs script. She’s probably busy sobbing over Mr. Orange’s leaking guts.”

“Would you just tell me why you’re here? I have a Russian test tomorrow and now isn’t really a good time to have a Hollywood actor in my bedroom.”

“Don’t get cross with me, sweetheart. I think you know why I’m here.”

“If I knew why you’re here then I wouldn’t have asked.”

“Hmm…” he mumbled distractedly. “Mind if I flip on the lights?” He didn’t wait for a response. His outfit looked even worse under the fluorescent bulb. His skin looked even more pitiful than his mismatched clothes. Every wrinkle was deeply marked in his middle-aged skin. He looked like he hadn’t had a glass of water in days. Even his hair seemed dried-up and flat. How was the poor bastard still getting work?

He dropped his cigarette in the glass of water at your bedside. “Lovely hats,” he said to himself. He walked over to your hat rack and tried on the big white one with black feathers and ribbon sprouting out of the top. “Very posh.” He let out a girlish giggle and spun around like a fashion model.

“Look, Mr. Roth, this isn’t really a good time for a fashion sho—“

“You’re absolutely right. Let’s get down to why I’m really here.”

Fucking finally. You had been holding your phone under your comforter with 911 on speed-dial, just in case.

“Now,” he plopped down on the floor and twisted himself into a compact pretzel. His tired knees let out a distinctive cracking noise in protest. “Over the years, I’ve made every effort to avoid the Internet. I mostly just log on to look at cats and maybe a few recipes. However, my wife loves to scour the scummiest corners of the Internet. It’s like a game to her. I tried my best to stay out of it, but she wouldn’t stop pestering me. She sent me a link to something on…what’s it called…tumbl-er dot com…”

Oh, shit. Tim had made contact with the actual bum hole of the Internet. “Now, look, Bailey...”

“How the hell do you know my name?” That should have been the first thing you asked him when he woke you up. Damn it.

“It was on your blog, duh.” Tim rolled his eyes and gave a tired sigh. “Anyway, what I’m trying to say is, I saw the post that you reblogged. You know which one.”

Your heart sped up. Was he referring to the photo of the dustpan next to an old man playing Wii bowling? The photo of a girl blowing dust into the air? The photo where his body’s replaced by Toucan Sam? Each possibility was equally shameful.

“I’m referring to the post about…what was it now…wanting to beat the shit out of me?”

Fuck. You never planned on following through with that fantasy. You were just trying to have a laugh on the Internet to distract yourself from the terrors of the global capitalist hegemony.

“Oh my gosh, Tim. I’m so sorry, it was just a joke. My idiot friend wrote that post.”

“Oh yeah, I know. I already gave that Clare cunt a stern talking-to. But listen, I’m not here to take you up on your offer. God knows I’d probably break a hip at the very least.”

You chuckled to yourself. Yeah, you could easily take this sonofabitch out. Old geezer.

“So then what do you want? I already apologized.”

Tim rubbed his hands together pensively. You could practically hear the dry skin flakes falling onto your carpet. You’d have to vacuum later.

“I guess I just want you to know, more than anything, that celebrities like me exist in the same plane of consciousness that you do. We aren't abstract concepts to trifle with or metaphorical chess pieces to manipulate. We have feelings, just like you, and words leave wounds.”

“So you came here to give me a preschool lesson on hurt feelings? Sticks and stones and all that?” God, he must really be lonely if he’s tracking down bored college students on the Internet.

“I just think that your time might be better spent doing something to uplift humanity. For example, instead of compiling photos of me and lining them up with photos of dust piles you could clean up actual dust piles in your room. It’s filthy in here. Rather than talking about how much you want a fictional version of me to shove paintbrushes up your arse, you could grab a paintbrush and make something beautiful. My point is, Bailey, you could be reaching so much higher. You have great potential and you’re wasting it behind a computer screen, re-watching the same sex scene from the same shitty movie again and again. Doesn't it bore you?”

“Well, I mean, I don’t just sit around and do that stuff all day. I go to class, you know. I do my homework.

“Yes, but that alone won’t make you happy. You need more than that. We all need more than that.”

As much as Tim was making you feel like a complete shitstain, he had to admit that he made a valid point. The quiet monotony of your academic life wasn't enhanced by mocking Tim on the Internet. You hid behind cheap laughs as a means of wasting time. Wasn't your time worth more than that? An old hunk of bread crust didn't deserve so much of your attention.

“You know what, Mr. Roth. You’re right. I’ll try to be more productive with my time. I’m sorry for bullying you on Tumblr. Sometimes I forget that celebrities are real people with blood and bones and not just elaborate plastic models used to manipulate the masses into worshiping false ideals of success and happiness.”

“That’s my girl!” Tim shot up off the ground, invigorated by the outcome of his mission. “I’m so glad you decided to hear me out. Clare didn't want to listen to me. She came at me with a pink pocket knife and tried to scrape the crust off of my elbows.”

Oh shit. You’d have to message her later.

“I know it’s kind of late, but do you want to get some coffee with me? The student café downstairs is open 24/7.”

“Bailey, I would be delighted.” Tim flashed you a warm smile. “Which hat should I wear?”

You watched as Tim tried on each one of your 20 or so hats. This wasn't quite how you imagined your first celebrity encounter, but it was for the best.

Tim finally decided on a slick orange bowler hat.

“After you, Mr. Orange,” you said with a tricky smile as you opened the door.

Tim gave a hearty laugh and adjusted his fanny pack. “Oh, dear. I’m never going to forget that role.”

“Neither will we.” You locked the door and headed down to the café with Tim, arm in arm. What a pleasant surprise on a quiet night.


End file.
